


Last Stop

by vulcansmirk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 20:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcansmirk/pseuds/vulcansmirk
Summary: Closing the distance feels like it takes an age, and at the end of it, Bucky’s not sure he’s closed anything at all. There’s a chasm there, still, again. Always. Different band, same old tune.[[MAJOR SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS: ENDGAME]]





	Last Stop

**Author's Note:**

> The Russos, for all their hard work and talent, didn't give us a proper conversation between Steve and Bucky. So I did it myself.
> 
> I've been crying nonstop since last night, and I needed an outlet for it, so that's pretty much all this is. There is a 97% probability that I will undertake the much longer project of Fixing It as soon as my semester is over.
> 
> As it says in the summary and the tags, this fic is pretty much one giant throbbing spoiler for Endgame, so if you haven't seen it, best mark this one for later.

They clasp hands, one strong and smooth, the other papery and weathered. They lock eyes, and the exchange is silent, but unmistakable. Knowing—the knowing of soldiers; friends; brothers.

With one last squeeze and a half-cocked smile, Sam turns away, returning to Bucky’s side.

He stops, stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, cocks his chin up. Holds the shield up in front of his chest.

“How do I look?” Sam asks.

Bucky smiles, and it’s genuine, but it flickers.

“Like crap,” he says. “Very well-protected crap.”

Sam’s whole posture relaxes as the shield drops to his side and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Prick,” he mutters, but there’s no malice in it.

The smile slides slowly, inexorably off Bucky’s face in the ensuing quiet. Birds chirp; trees whisper. Bucky’s eyes drift, falling just shy of the back of a gray-haired head.

He looks up when a strong, smooth hand falls on his shoulder.

Sam’s eyes are gentle. Knowing.

“Go on,” he tells Bucky.

Bucky blinks quickly a few times, draws in a shaky breath, and finally nods. Squares his shoulders. Takes the first step.

Closing the distance feels like it takes an age, and at the end of it, Bucky’s not sure he’s closed anything at all. There’s a chasm there, still, again. Always. Different band, same old tune.

He stops next to the bench. Stares out at the shimmering water.

“Bucky.”

The word comes on the crest of a mile-high wave, and Bucky can do little more than close his eyes against it. He forces himself to breathe for a few seconds more before he finally turns. Looks. Finds familiar wells of green-kissed blue.

Steve smiles. It’s small, in that way he always has, and it almost gets buried in the wrinkles on his face. But Bucky sees it. He knows.

Steve gestures to the empty space beside him.

“Sit?”

The sight of his friend’s face, so suddenly changed, is almost as effective as that goddamn cryochamber. But finally, haltingly, Bucky lurches into motion. Lands hard on the bench as his legs give out on him.

He can’t look. Hunches over, stares down at his hands. Silver twined with gold.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Neither does Steve. They just sit side-by-side, listening to the wind.

After a full minute of silence, Bucky finds his voice.

“How’s Peggy?” he asks.

Steve sighs, and Bucky hears the smile in it. “At peace,” he says.

Bucky nods, once. Stares at his hands.

“You gonna ask me why?” Steve asks.

A moment, and Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t have to.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “No. I guess you don’t.”

Silence falls.

“Buck, I…” Steve stops. Starts again. “I want you to know, I didn’t—this choice, it wasn’t—easy. I thought about it for a long time.”

Despite everything, Bucky can’t help but smile. “I know,” he says. “You always do.”

“Right.”

Bucky can practically hear Steve chewing on his tongue. He still can’t look up at him.

“I thought about you,” Steve goes on. “I didn’t… I never wanted to leave you.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, waving a metal hand in the air. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do, though,” Steve presses. And then, “Bucky. Look at me. Please.”

The breath that leaves Bucky’s lungs sounds like one of Steve’s, the old ones from those brisk Brooklyn winters when the pneumonia latched on and wouldn’t let go.

Bucky looks up.

Steve looks right back, looks right through Bucky. Smiles, small, sad.

“You’re strong,” he murmurs. “You’re stronger now. When I first got you back, I thought—I worried… that they’d beaten you. That they’d taken too much, and there wasn’t enough left of you to keep going. But I was wrong.”

He reaches over carefully, takes both of Bucky’s hands in his own. His skin feels paper-thin in Bucky’s flesh hand. Bucky stares.

“I was wrong,” Steve says. “Thank god.”

The pull is magnetic—Bucky can’t stop himself from meeting Steve’s eye again.

God, his face is so different. But his eyes… his eyes are the same. Bucky has no goddamn power to stop the tear that spills down his cheek.

“You don’t need me anymore,” Steve says, still with that goddamn smile. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’ll be okay without me.”

Another tear. They’re coming fast now, hot and free. Bucky’s throat won’t open.

“But I…” Steve grips Bucky’s hands harder, looks down. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay, Buck.”

A speck of warm wetness strikes Bucky’s flesh hand, slipping down between the layers of his and Steve’s skin.

“I was… lost,” whispers Steve. “From the moment they pulled me out of the ice, I was lost. For years, I was just… empty.”

Steve pulls in a rattling breath. Bucky struggles with the warring urges to yank his hands back and to lean close and wrap Steve up in his arms.

“When I found out you were alive, I… it was the first time in years that I started to feel human again. The first time in years that I felt real.”

He trails fragile fingers up Bucky’s right arm, raising a line of goosebumps in his wake.

“But you didn’t need me,” he says with a watery smile. “Truth is, you never needed me as much as I needed you.”

“Steve,” Bucky chokes.

“It’s okay,” Steve breathes. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s fine. None of it’s your fault. I just… you were my home, for so long. But you needed more. And I needed more, too.”

Steve slips a cool palm back down Bucky’s forearm, gently clasping both of Bucky’s hands between his own. He meets Bucky’s eye, brave. Unflinching.

“We just kept missing each other,” says Steve. “And I wanted… but I needed more. And then I got a shot.” Steve shrugs. “So I took it.”

He draws Bucky’s hands close, cradling them like they’re something far more precious than metal and blood and bone.

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you now,” he says again. “And I’m not standing in your way anymore.”

He squeezes Bucky’s hands.

“This is your shot,” Steve says, and smiles. “I hope you take it.”

Bucky forces himself to breathe.

“Steve.”

“It’s okay.” And finally, Steve moves closer, wraps his arms, frail but firm, around Bucky’s shuddering form. “It’s okay, Buck. It’s gonna be okay.”

And Bucky lets go, here, at the end. He lets go, finally—lets himself lean in, lets himself tuck his nose in the crook of Steve’s crinkled neck and breathe in the scent that never fails to remind him of home.

Steve holds him as he mourns. Whispers comforting nonsense into Bucky’s hair as he shakes apart.

Bucky hiccups, wrestling himself back under control. He just needs a minute. Just one more.

“You’re wrong,” he manages to say as Steve strokes gentle circles across his back.

“No, Bucky. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”

“No, I mean…”

Bucky pulls back, looks hard into Steve’s eyes. He needs to be absolutely clear on this.

“I mean, you’re wrong about me.” He brings his right hand up to cup Steve’s face. “I did need you. I always needed you.”

Steve’s eyes glimmer too-bright as he relaxes into Bucky’s touch. Bucky buries fingers into the hair at Steve’s nape, runs a reverent thumb over his cheek.

“I’m just gonna keep on missing you, aren’t I?” And now it’s Bucky’s turn to smile.

Steve sniffs, shakes. Winds white-knuckled fingers into the hem of Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky pulls Steve’s head down, presses his lips tenderly to his friend’s wrinkled forehead.

“I’m happy for you, Stevie,” he whispers. “I’m just sorry to miss you.”

Bucky folds Steve up in his arms and holds him as something inside both of them crumbles.

The band plays on.


End file.
